


The Homes We Make

by oneawkwardcookie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Allison Argent Lives, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Circus, Blood and Injury, Cage Fights, Gen, I haven't watched Teen Wolf for years and I stopped watching in season 2 (i think), Teen Wolf AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24272332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneawkwardcookie/pseuds/oneawkwardcookie
Summary: Derek and Peter travel the country making a living as cage fighters, after his family are killed in a fire. After a serious injury and a chance encounter with Scott McCall and his circus, Derek thinks he's escaped his violent and sociopathic uncle. Peter still has leverage over the only other thing in the world that he loves more than his new life: his sister.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura
Kudos: 2





	1. Caged and Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a WIP, although I have a few chapters that are there or thereabouts.

There are flashes of orange behind the grey of his eyelids. Derek’s eyes remain closed. It’s too early, even for him. Only when he starts to hear crackling do his ears perk up, but by then, the smoke starts to fill his lungs, and he can’t seem to open his eyes. Helpless, he lies paralysed as he starts to hear the roar of fire, his heartbeat loud in his head as everything around him seems to groan, and the heat grows and grows until it’s almost too unbearable and he opens his mouth to…

Gasping awake, Derek sits up in a panic, breaths coming out heavily in the bright spring air. He looks around with dread, hands scrambling over the edge of the truck bed to give him a better view of his environment, until he finds the source of the fire. Peter is working on a blackened grill, side to him as he chews down a pinkish sausage, the soft squish audible even as he swirls his beer and gulps it all down.

Pulse returning to normal, Derek sits back down, wrapping the blanket further around himself. He hasn’t dreamt of the fire in so long, it’s taken him aback. His mind turns to Laura, wondering if she remembers enough of it to have these kinds of memories, these kinds of feelings.

“Breakfast’s almost ready.” Peter’s gruff voice takes Derek out of his brief reverie. 

Derek turns back to Peter, who is kicking his feet through twigs and flicking bright cigarette sparks onto the wet earth underneath. Stretching life back into his arms, Derek grabs a plastic plate and drops over the side of the truck, shuffling over to Peter to get his food.

They sit in silence. Derek picks at his bacon, staring at the swirls and the droplets of fat that congeal in the morning breeze. With a quick shake of his head, he starts slowly chewing down his sausage with a stale bread roll.

Peter wolfs down the rest of his sausages, smearing away the red sauce on his cheek with the back of his hand. He stands up, cracks his shoulders, and turns to face Derek. Lips curling, he spits out, “There’s a fight tonight: try not to lose.”

With those words, Peter makes his way into the driver’s seat. Derek slumps, shoves his plate aside and pushes himself upright. His legs feel unsteady. He can’t lose, not again, but his chest feels tight and his body aches with unseen and unhealed bruises.

Steeling himself with a wavering breath, he makes his way to Peter.

* * *

* * *

The volume of the crowd grows – stomping feet, thumping fists and the undercurrent of something primal. Bright lights illuminate the ring in a halo of orange, leaving the spectators to fade into dark anonymity, reduced to a raucous heaving mass.The referee ducks into the ring, to growing roars, and circles round, further riling up the crowd before he begins the introductions.

“On my left, in the red, the rowdy Russian, the one, the only: The Tiger!” The crowd bellows, with cheers of ‘Tiger’ and ‘Bikin’ bouncing around the concrete walls and weaving through the chain fence. “On my right, in the blue, we have a challenger from out of town: The Wolf.”

Derek leans against the edge of the ring and grimaces at the growls and boos. Peter waits behind him, smirking and lapping up the hostilities. As the crowd’s noises temporarily die down, he quietly snaps out his orders: 

“Don’t fuck this up: don’t end it quickly, take it to the third round…then finish him”

With a final glare, he leaves Derek’s side. Derek’s attention moves across to his opponent, who is receiving some quiet words and an invigorating shoulder massage from his coach.

Both stand up, stretching and bouncing on the spot. The referee strides back into the middle of the ring, but Derek zones out on his words as he takes in his opponent. He can’t be older than 20, with a shaved head and a series of dark brown scars trailing across his left arm. Derek starts to wonder about the state of his soul, but the bell goes before he has time to indulge in anything further.

Derek comes out swinging blindly, mind unengaged as he plays out his normal routine, drawing his opponent into the dance. He takes a few early blows, before a sudden choke hold flips the momentum. The Tiger twists his way out of it, and the two return to their corners before circling each other.

Peter prowls in and out of the spectators. There are hushed discussions, disguised by the roars of the crowd. Scraps of papers and money exchange hands, bookended by Peter’s dangerous grin.

Thinking that enough time has passed in the first round, Derek lands a stunning blow, sending the Tiger stumbling backwards. Derek follows with a few sharp jabs: ribs, chest, face. The last of these pushes the boy into his corner, and the referee slides in, guiding Derek back into the centre of the ring.

Pity. That’s what Derek feels for the young boy in front on him, who sways in his stupefied state and slowly drips blood onto the dirty concrete floor. He doesn’t want to hurt him, he doesn’t want to hurt any of them. But that’s what he’s become: a blunt weapon, hollow and heavy, to be swung in line with Peter’s will.

The bell rings again.

He squares his shoulders, sets his expression to somewhere between stoic and menacing, and begins his advance. He slowly paces towards his opponent, rolling his shoulders in preparation.

But before he can get a chance to apply another headlock, his opponent surges forwards, smashing his head into Derek’s and sending Derek stumbling onto the floor. Once down, they grapple on the floor, one rough forearm around Derek’s neck and the other hand holding Derek’s arm on the mat.

Peter’s eyes light up at the sudden change in the flow of the match. Derek can’t tell whose blood is in his eyes, but he feels his strength weakening. He battles to pry open his opponent’s grip, but instead finds a thumb jabbed into his eye. Blinded, he falls backwards again. He only manages to turn his head sideways before he blacks out. The last thing he sees is Peter in the crowd, baring his teeth and dissolving back into the darkness.

* * *

* * *

The bed feels firm but scratchy under Derek’s nails. He doesn’t want to open his eyes more than a crack, but can already see the sun filtering through cheap curtains. He almost closes his eyes, until a long shadow crosses the window. 

“Peter, he shoved a fucking nail in my eye!” Derek bolts upright in bed, back pressed almost painfully against the wall. He tries to appear both formidable and blameless, but doesn’t think he’s succeeding at either.

Slowly turning towards him, Peter intones, “I don’t care if he shoved a rusty screw up your nose: You. are. weak.”

Derek’s eyes settle into the middle distance as Peter continues, “I only ask one thing from you, and you can’t even do that. I can’t have you fighting for me, for your family, if you aren’t good enough.”

The words settle into Derek’s stomach like a whiskey burn, familiar but sickening, and his eyes glaze over.

“I only do this because I care about you, about Laura.” Derek’s eyes flash up at his sister’s name and harden against the softness he sees in Peter’s eyes. Maybe he’s hurt himself more than normal, or maybe it’s just his stomach churning, but he feels as though he’s at sea, and the waves are about to swallow him whole.

“You don’t want to be letting your family down now, do you? Our family.” Peter places a heavy hand on Derek’s shoulder and Derek bolts up, shaking Peter out of his measured speech.

“If you want to be fit for my support, you’ll need to train harder –” The rest of Peter’s words wash over Derek, as he swipes his jacket and heads out, the breeze slamming the door behind him.


	2. Memories and Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's battles, both internal and external, don't stop, but it seems like Peter may have pushed things a little too far this time.

The concrete slabs are clean, lined with the occasional flower bed or park bench. Derek nods in greeting to an elderly couple that pass him by and his eyes widen as he sees a vintage shop further up the street.

The bell above his head rings a little too loudly for his liking and summons an over-eager shop assistant to hover at his elbow. She’s young enough to jump to her duties and new enough to still fumble over what to say.

“Welcome to Pockets of Time, I’m Linda. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Derek looks down and remembers to smile.

“No, thank you, just browsing. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” Linda blushes at the eye contact and returns to the till.

Derek wanders around the shop, his mind calming as he slowly and methodically drifts through the aisles.

His calloused fingers gently grip at small tchotchkes – glass statues and time-worn toys and old cinema posters. He was browsing almost mindlessly until he came back round to the front of the shop and was confronted with a circus poster. Pinned up haphazardly on the shop window, it was advertising for the following week. His eyes froze as his mind blazed through memories – flashes of music, animals, smiling faces swinging down and away –

In his haste to leave, his shoulder bumps into a nearby shelf and his heart sinks at the cracking noise behind him. Turning, he looks forlornly at the broken glass ballerina, her leg having skittered a metre away. Bending slowly, he picks her up with trembling hands.

“I’m so sorry, I bumped into this. I’ll pay for it if you want - just, how much is it?” Linda’s kind smile only falters slightly, but rights itself with a pleasant “It’s $7, but you don’t need to worry about it.”

Derek is already rummaging in his wallet, trying not to send anything else across the floor as he thumbs through coins. Finding the right amount, he tips them into Linda’s hands. He makes a beeline for the door, not hearing Linda’s cheerful goodbye over the doorbell and the rushing blood in his ears.

Once outside, he can blame a sudden breeze for the tears that well and slip down his cheek, as well as his arms wrapped tight around himself. In between the bubbling memories, all he can think of is that he won’t even be in town long enough to see the circus. He thinks that it’s probably for the best.

* * *

* * *

There’s no metal cage or padded floor this time. The clearing has been swept a little, and an old fence post dragged in a semblance of a circle before being staked into the ground. The man leaning against the post towers above Derek, his scowl adding more lines to his grizzled face.

The cold night brings few spectators, but there are some familiar and unwelcome faces from the previous fight, hovering in small groups. Without a referee, the start of the fight is like rolling thunder clouds, with the tension rising until both fighters nod and make their way towards each other.

As they circle each other, Derek can almost feel the breath of the spectators behind him, harsh and cruel, nothing holding them back from the violence to come.

There’s a solidness to the other fighter, booted feet gripping soundly to the dry earth. He toys with Derek a little, a gold tooth glowing softly under the cloudy night sky as he swings side to side.

A sudden surge forwards, and Derek is in a rough headlock, struggling for a few seconds before he is shoved to the ground. He immediately glares up, hands clawing into the earth.

Slivers of moonlight slip between the trees, bathing everything in white. Somehow Derek looks less pale, and his eyes flash before he closes them and breathes deeply, rising firmly to his feet.

The other fighter starts to stalk towards him, but Derek sends him reeling with a heavy right hook. Stumbling back a few feet, he tries to charge against Derek, who growls and takes him down with a wide arcing flip that leaves him stunned. Derek drops to the ground, fists a blur as he follows up with blows that leave his opponent unconscious.

Standing up, he turns his back to most of the crowd and walks out in the woods, leaving Peter smirking behind him.

* * *

* * *

Sunlight bled through Derek’s cracked eyelids, loud and bright. His arms were lead, his legs stone. His hands were cold and slow moving as he tried to shove himself upright. Half propping himself up against the side of the truck, he pawed around for his bag, rummaging around to find a sports drink and gulping it all down in one go.

Closing his eyes again, he breathed for a minute, trying to gather his strength. His stomach still complained, so he dragged himself to the end of the truck bed, to go in search of food  
One hand rubbing at reddened eyes, the other leaning against the side of the truck, he doesn’t see the men coming until they’re already on him.

Two grab his arms and hold him back, whilst the third crowds into him, knocking the air out of him with a barrage of punches to his stomach.

“Y’all come out of nowhere, and think you can play us? We should have known you’d be cheats, but you’re a freak as well. You and your swindling uncle had better never come back around here.”

“And just in case you can’t take a message,” Derek looks up and sees the blade slice his side in what seems like slow motion.

The men move away and he doubles over and falls with a thud, his hand clutching his side with a weakening grip. His eyes feel increasingly heavy, but he could have sworn he heard some soft footsteps and a slow rumble of a truck engine before he succumbs to the pain and can’t hear anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make the world go round (or at least make me a little happier!)


	3. Found and Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes people are just in the right place at the right time - still not sure that Derek is one of them, but maybe his luck is looking up a little bit.

The pebbles start to shift, slide, then jump, little hops into the air, as the ground rumbles thunderously. Flashes of headlights track and loom, followed by large trucks that start a circular path around the edges of the clearing.

A whoosh and a clunk, and the passenger door of the leading vehicle swings open. Scott jumps out and starts a confident path towards the other side of the clearing, shouting instructions, arms conducting an orchestra to the people coming out of the other trucks.

As the movements around him gain momentum and tents start to sprout up, he makes his way to the edge of the clearing, only to stub his toe on something. Finally looking down, the blood rushes out of his face at the sight of Derek, spread-eagle and sickly pale, with a small pool of blood gathered under him.

A small gulp and Scott leaps into action, falling to his knees to check if Derek is still breathing. He exhales a small smile of relief when he sees the slow but steady rise and fall of Derek’s chest, but immediately calls out.

“Stiles! Anyone! Get here now! Emergency!”

Slinging Derek’s limp arm over his shoulder and slotting his own around him, Scott pulls Derek almost upright, and drags him to one of the tents that has just been set up.

Lydia sweeps in, concerned but practical. She immediately pushes over to Derek, makes the same initial assessment as Scott, and rolls her eyes.

“He smells of despair,” she states monotonously. Knowledgeable hands brush aside Derek’s many layers to find the source of the wound. Exasperated and rattled, she begins listing off instructions for a silent Scott.

“It looks like it’s stopped bleeding, but you’ll still need clean bandages, and it might be poisoned or burnt so call Kira.”

With a final nonchalant “He'll live.” she walks off, leaving Scott to look back at Derek and the knife wound, which looks a lot blacker than it should. He leans down to get a better look.  
Stiles barrels over in Lydia’s wake.

“Why were you calling, Lydia said someone was stabbed but our guys are –” Scott shushes him into silence mid-sentence, but Derek has already stirred, and both Scott and Stiles hover over him, waiting to see what happens next.

“Who the fuck is he?” Stiles mutters.

* * *

* * *

Derek opens his eyes to dark blurs under amber lighting, and everything is calm before the pain and the unfamiliar surrounding kick in at the same time. He bolts upright, alert and panting, looking panickedly around him, whilst clutching groaning at his side.

“It’s alright, you’re alright now, you’re safe, we’re looking after you.” Scott fumbles over his reassurances, open hands hovering above his chest.

“I’m Scott, this is Stiles.”

Derek squints at them both, trying to make out faces under the lanterns and through the ever-growing blanket of pain that threatens his consciousness.

“It looks like you’ve been stabbed, so we might have to take you to the hospital.” Derek lurches forwards at that, grabbing Stiles’ hand in the process.

“No hospitals!” His eyes widen, and he looks back and forth, the grip on Stiles’ hand tightening to the point that Stiles’ winces. “No hospitals, it’s fine, I’m, it’s… no hospitals.”

It’s the last thing he says before he falls back again, chest heaving with silent gasps. 

Scott and Stiles turn simultaneously to each other, a hundred words of concern and confusion and judgement passing silently between them.

“We still need to patch you up though,” Scott concedes. “Stiles, I’m going to get Kira.”

* * *

* * *

Scott strides out of the tent, and Stiles can hear him asking of Kira’s whereabouts. Stiles suddenly feels the emptiness of the tent.

“I’m Stiles, but you might have heard that, or maybe not, you might have been unconscious. It happens: you were stabbed I think, that’s normal… not the stabbing bit, although I don’t know, maybe it is for you.”

Derek can barely make out what is going on, so Stiles’ rambling doesn’t stick.

“We don’t really know you, like at all, so maybe this is your normal, but what a weird normal, right?” He pauses and huffs out a short chuckle, before ploughing on.

“Are you local?”

A beat.

“You don’t seem local, but we’re not local either, so I guess we have that in common?”

“We’ll take care of you though, probably do a better job than a hospital. I don’t know why you don’t like hospitals, but I get it, they just remind me of…”

Derek finally looks up, the deafening silence breaking through the mental fog. He peers into Stiles’ eyes and tries to project some sort of empathy into the glazed look they now held.

The silence is more comfortable now, and it takes a few minutes before Derek starts to wonder how he ended up holding Stiles' hand and how long they’ve been sitting like this. His brows start to knot, but the bemusion is broken by Scott returning to the tent, alongside Kira.


	4. Healing and Tradition

“You’re in good hands”. With a soft smile and a gentle squeeze to Kira’s shoulder, Scott leaves.

Kira nods briefly at Stiles and starts to get her equipment ready, eyes glancing briefly at Derek’s hand resting limply in Stiles’ and the look of concern in Stiles’ eyes.

Turning to her patient, she asks, “So, what’s your name and what happened?” The silence becomes heavy again, only punctuated by the muted movements as Kira’ hands make easy work of setting out the scissors, bandages, bowl of water, and the pestle and mortar.

“Derek. Stabbed.” His eyes slip closed, creasing in an echo of a grimace as he remembers the burning pain.

Kira’s hands dance around, grabbing small fabric bags and tipping them into the mortar. She grinds up the herbs, the sounds echoing around the tent. She takes the scissors and slices through the side of his darkened clothes, exposing the slashed flesh, still bloody but no longer bleeding. She wonders at how such a shallow wound resulted in so much blood.

With a flick of the wrist, she soaks a cloth and cleans the wound with measured motions, pouring water over it. Derek’s mouth contorts up before rounding on an exhale. She applies the herb paste over the wound, using calloused fingers to spread it thickly and evenly. Kira motions to Stiles to lift Derek a little, and together they wrap the gauze tightly around his waist.

Eyes closed, her fingers ghost over the bandage and her lips curl around a silent prayer.

* * *

* * *

Kira’s work done, she slips out of the tent. After the adrenaline rush, she welcomes the gentle night breeze and tilts her head back, blinking slowly as she takes in the evening sky. Stiles comes along to join here, looking ahead at the passing workers and animals.

“I wonder where he came from.” Kira lowers her gaze to look over at Stiles, who stares ahead.

“He looks like trouble. Did you see his scars?” A begrudging nod. “He’s been hurt, badly. The only time I’ve seen scars like those… my fire leaves those sorts of marks. I don’t know who he pissed off, but you don’t just get stabbed like that unprovoked.”

Stiles’ tightly pressed lips and silence start to jar Kira, who finds herself voicing her fears up at the stars.

“He can clearly handle himself, if the bruises on his knuckles are anything to go by, and we really don’t need any trouble, let alone another mouth to feed.”

“He seemed scared,” Stiles’ voice can barely be heard over the sudden rumble of hooves that passes between tents.

“I thought we had a rule about helping who we can: we don’t turn anyone away” Stiles places an arm around Kira, and she leans into him for comfort. “If he needs food, then I guess I’ll just eat a little less” Humour starts to colour his voice again, and Kira braves a smile.

She pokes her elbow into his ribs, and smirks: “Scott can spare more food than you can.” Stiles raises an eyebrow and before she can blush, she says “Anyway, maybe you should help yourself a little more first” Stiles pulls her into a proper hug over that.

“I’ll sit with Derek and make sure he’s alright. The next couple of hours will be crucial. You can go tell Scott that he’s stable”.

With a squeeze to her shoulder, Stiles walks away. 

* * *

* * *

Wires and ropes criss-cross throughout the big top, flashing glints of silver and gold against the billowing blue backdrop. People scurry and fly overhead, shimmying up and down in synchronised movements. Stiles strides over to the middle of the tent, feet crunching in the sand as he nears Scott.

Scott is pre-occupied – bright eyed and co-ordinating the creation of scaffolding that shifts above him, hands waving like a conductor.

“You should have a gold top hat for occasions like these.” Scott’s eyes remain on the ballet above him, but his eyes crinkle.

“Only if you get a bowler hat to match.” They both grin, before Scott shouts up an instruction about the trapeze.

“The guy, Derek, he’s doing better.” Scott nods slowly in response. “Kira patched him up, so she’ll stay with him until tonight.”

Scott turns to look at him, eyes warm with pride. He places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “We’ll put her on first then. I’ve saved her some of the cinnamon rolls, can you take them over to her?”

“Aw, you must really love her if you’re not scoffing them down.” With a quick glance upwards, Scott pounces onto Stiles, dragging him down into a headlock. Stiles wails in protest, arms flailing and mouth jabbering away a combination of hollow apologies and further teasing. Only a pinch to Scott’s stomach gets him released, as Stiles smirks.

“Okay, okay, I’ll take them over. You’re too soft Scott.” Scott smiles sadly at that, pulling Stiles into a hug that Stiles leans into as well. When he finally releases him, there’s a friendly shove to the shoulder, before Scott looks back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last thing I've actually written: the rest is very vaguely outlined and there is definitely not an ending in mind at the moment...


End file.
